


of what you do

by fuvis



Series: it's about the essence, not the eloquence [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Original Work, Sort of - Fandom
Genre: Do you understand?, Gen, Other, Purple Prose, Rant, check notes for trigger warnings!!!, everyone is mad at the world, perhaps inaccurate character interpretations, using a book universe to talk about my feelings like the coward i am, war and its eventual consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:42:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25229281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuvis/pseuds/fuvis
Summary: the magic is not of what you make, they say, they lay their hands on your shoulders and whisper in your ear to let yourself free.what is it to be free?magic is of what you do. you litter the air with your colors and collect the firestorm of your maria ave, try to never come back down from the wind blowing through your skin and through to the other side, your flesh and bone just a container for the potential inside of you.who are you?you are not of what you make yourself out to be; you are the very existence of yourself that your actions and words have consequences, your faceted planes will never cover you, the stars glare down at you from the skies. they know everything, try as you might to cover yourself up in draperies.you do, that is. you do, doing the very things you were taught, the very rules you break, the very laws you disobey, the constructs you rip apart, you are something burning but perhaps not bright but perhaps not dark.do you understand?
Relationships: Everyone & War
Series: it's about the essence, not the eloquence [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827799
Kudos: 3





	of what you do

**Author's Note:**

> also known as my feelings smeared across the screen like jam on bread.
> 
> please note that i'm fairly certain that most of this is unedited.
> 
> please also take into consideration that some of the stuff i'm talking about is fairly serious stuff, no matter how in depth i've taken it (which, is not at all). please go to the ending notes to see some of the warnings.
> 
> this is an indulgent rant/write-fest i couldn't stop. please keep in mind that most of this is incoherent jabbering that i tried to manifest in a manner that was readable.
> 
> happy reading.

  
perhaps, after the war, there is an influx of people needing homes.

there are muggles, squibs, wizards, witches, all without their lives intact, destroyed by the heavy price of war and what it means. perhaps they have lost families, perhaps they have lost touch with distant relatives, perhaps they have lost their homes, perhaps they have lost their belongings, perhaps they have lost everything and anything that they could call theirs.

perhaps they have lost sisters, lost brothers. perhaps they have lost their children, under burning wrecks of rubble and screams. perhaps those bones and breath they keep close to their heart, huddled under blankets and warming charms. perhaps they have lost their mothers, their fathers, their guardians, their protectors.

perhaps there are orphans that go to homes that they were never meant to be in, perhaps there are pictures on the walls of a different family, perhaps they sit at the dinner table silently, perhaps they cry at night with no one to peek through their door and comfort them. perhaps there are little girls and boys that stare out from alleyways, never caught, like the passing shadows of the sun littered alongside the chunks of rock and wood and stone blasted apart by red and green and yellow curses. 

perhaps there are people who lay awake, staring at the sky, ribs counted under fingers, wondering if this is all they are reduced to, if this is it, if this is the end.

perhaps there are people who go to every single funeral, people to stare up at the grey sky like millions of others that are doing the same, perhaps there are people who try not to cry but break down, perhaps there is the red of blood still crusted under fingernails and the blood not washed out from their clothes.

perhaps there are people who knew this would happen. perhaps there are people who are higher than anyone else, passing gold galleons to hands, giving up their positions for freedom, flint-eyed and silver-tongued, spying the end for what it was. perhaps there are people who run free that should never be free, perhaps they are the ones with the wands that cursed and broke and destroyed and killed.

perhaps there is wailing. perhaps there are bells rung and hymns sung for the fallen, graves upon graves, some unmarked, never to know their true owners. perhaps there is a family that is red-haired and pale, under a tree, staring at the one that they lost, and perhaps they were quite lucky to have made it out with such a large part of each other, but the one they lost will always be a gap, a hole, never recovered, but perhaps with time scabbed over and thought upon fondly.

perhaps one of these red-haired folk has lost their other half. perhaps they cannot find the strength to go on. perhaps they sit all day, staring off, mute, wondering if there should have been none instead of one left. perhaps they ponder the thought, looking at a wand, sitting innocently in their lap, and wonders if they have enough rage for a green-hued killing curse. perhaps they have been put on suicide watch by saint mungo’s, and their whole family cried, one by one, coming up to him, asking him to please, stay alive, for us, for us who lived, and maybe one day he will look upon his entire family and think that it was the right choice, but now, he sits and watches the wand on his thighs like it is a prayer waiting to be answered.

perhaps a boy sits alone, his hair shifting colors, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. perhaps there is a boy who waits and watches, who feels alone, who doesn’t know these heroic people that were his parents, doesn’t know the brightness of his mother or the steadiness of his father, who doesn’t know if he should turn his hair brown or pink or keep the blue for their funeral. perhaps he settles on a deep black, because it is familiar, and it is fitting for the occasion.

perhaps there is a girl who lost her mother, the sole source of light in her life compared to her busy and away father, the woman who taught her how to be kind and how to smile and how to love, the woman who died in her home where she was safe as her child was in hogwarts, in the hufflepuff dormitories, wondering if she would survive this year at school but was certain that her mother would be alright.

perhaps there is a woman who has lost her child, a middle one, sure, but one that was so vibrant and immature and brattish and beautiful that it didn’t matter. it never mattered. she is so glad that her other children survived, but what is a family that is missing one? perhaps she thinks of all the things she could have done, all of the things she could have been for her child, perhaps if she had just been a bit faster, a bit quicker, a bit smarter, she could have made it, she could have seen her child live, she could have seen him finish growing and marry and tell her that she was going to be a grandmother.

perhaps there is a brother that thinks of death. perhaps this brother thinks of death, and corruption, and horrible thoughts, of how maybe if he had just not told a joke, if his brother might have lived instead of going down laughing. maybe if he hadn’t been blind, had seen his family for the tied-together, rambuckle mis-matched loving mess that they were, he would have been able to spend more time with them. perhaps there is a brother who knows that no matter what, they will think of him as the one who betrayed them, who looked at them in contempt, the worst weasley, the most horrid brother in existence.

perhaps there is a beetle that scurries along her path. one that was full of misinterpretation and gossip and mean words and misinformation and false news and quills that would write for you. perhaps this beetle thinks of the world in its entirety and cannot put her head past her job, her quill, her stories, and perhaps she will be squashed underfoot, because people who cannot learn cannot grow.

perhaps there is a woman who finds herself at a standstill. on one hand, there is her husband. try as you might, you cannot twist this story. she loved him, truly, but loved him because she trusted him. it was a marriage built on trust, and she could not trust him for anything, anymore. her son was misguided, but she could not help but love him, and thinks of a man who lay on the floor, eyes closed, and remembers her beating heart, thumping through her ears, remembers whispering about the only thing she could afford to love, remembers saying that the chosen one was finally, finally dead. she remembers this and lowers her head in the courtroom, because all of the mercy she could have gained has already been blessed upon her. her son is alive. that is all that matters, now.

perhaps there is a man who gazes out the window, deep in thought. his hand twitches, although asking for a wand, but he does not act on it. hogwarts is in the process of rebuilding, and he was elected to be the deputy headmaster, and he thinks that he is getting very old. the old stones of hogwarts hum gently at him, and he closes his eyes, because perhaps the only thing he can do now is teach the next generation, and let them learn about what happened in these halls. perhaps the door to the charms classroom opens, and another woman, the headmistress steps in, and they share a quiet look of bitter understanding.

perhaps there is a man who is on the run. perhaps his wild eyes are shaking, perhaps the dirt on his hands in smudged across his face. perhaps he is in dark robes and has a black, marred mark on his forearm. perhaps he rasps with every breath, from all of the crucios he has endured from his master, and perhaps he is filled with desperation, and perhaps that desperation translates into rage. perhaps he blows up a muggle house, screaming all the while of his lost world and opportunities, and perhaps he is filled with a sense of feral fear, perhaps he does not want to die just yet, and perhaps he apparates away just as the aurors apparate in.

perhaps he drops his only form of identification, an old wand that belonged to his wife, a woman with wild hair and a perfectly sharp grin and insane eyes.

perhaps there is a man who is so swamped that he collapses. perhaps he is not actively trying to even run for minister of magic, but there are still people who want to elect him. perhaps he is an auror that is the only direct connection to the man who conquered himself, perhaps he is trying to fill out the spaces that were left after the war, trying to stretch himself so the whole world does not collapse once again around him.

perhaps there is magic that swirls in the air, thousands of black fires burning through forests, sparks of red and silver crying out, a scream for help in the darkness. perhaps there is nothing but freedom in the savage wastelands of where homes used to be, blasted remains on the ground.

perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. perhaps there is so much more than you know.

  
  


everything has a balance. everything is a balanced line, carefully aligned to fit comfortably in the world, the earth-string. the balance just depends on the person, you see?

perhaps all of those things are true. perhaps the war screams from hearts and minds, perhaps it is marked and slashed into rocks, symbols of horrors and reminders of the things that cannot be reversed. perhaps you should know. i would not know. you are your own person.

  
  


sometimes, however, there are times when you cannot reach into your own mind, your own soul. that is true. sometimes, there are times when i understand that you look into a mirror and cannot separate yourself from the image, you cannot understand your different facets. you cannot understand what you are, who you are. that is true.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


perhaps you would understand better if i told it to you this way:

there is no “perhaps”. 

there are thousands of people misplaced. they stay in shelters, huddled into their own skins, frightened or fearful or uncertain, stuck in corners and dirty alleys and places they are not meant to be. 

there are thousands of people dead. they litter the sidewalks and streets and they are ashes on the ground. they are bodies, open eyes, unseeing, glazed over, red soaking through their clothes and drying a morbid brown. they are the thousands upon thousands of unnamed people, mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and daughters and sons, forever lying still in unmarked graves. do you understand?

there are thousands of people starving. they need resources, more than ever, because war drains everything. do you understand? they scavenge from abandoned houses, picture frames sitting on the crooked mantles. they steal and rob and take, because there is nothing that can be done for them. what home? what shelter? what money? they don’t have those things. those were destroyed with everything they had, you see?

there are thousands of people traumatized. they have seen the worst, indescribable things. it does not matter the way they have seen them. they have seem them, witnessed them, been through them, screamed when the happened, have felt the deep-bone feeling of desperate panic. do you understand? they will never be the same. they might grow. they might fall. do you understand?

do you understand that war is not what you say it is? do you understand that the things you do will impact it? do you understand that when you look at children who are not meant to suffer and they ask you to smuggle food to them in their prison of a school, your choice will impact the world? do you understand that sometimes letting go of a friend or a family member is more important than not being able to face them? do you understand that death is not cowardice, but it is the price for disloyalty? do you understand that if you betray a friend, a brother, a sister, you will never be the same, no matter who is affected most?

do you  _ understand? _

what is it to be free?

do you understand that war is not black and white? do you understand that it is always shades of grey, hiding under titles and dark and light?

do you understand that there are sacrifices? do you understand that sometimes a leader has to choose between people as if they were objects, and do you understand that idealism is only healthy in small amounts? would you be able to hide your own pain and ideals when it comes to it? would you be able to raise a boy to his slaughter, to defeat someone who would bring the end of the world itself, if not put in check? could you?

do you understand that there are spies? do you understand that a snake on your forearm does not always mean evil? do you understand that a man killed himself for his love, once from the inside, once from the outside? 

do you understand that a snake on your forearm does not mean evil, but it doesn’t mean that you are a good person? you could linger for all you want, but in the end, you would know your sacrifice would be remembered as bitter, at most?

do you understand that one day your closest friend could turn on you, because he fears a man more than he loves you? do you understand that? would you be able to forgive him? would you be able to take that? would you be able to look at someone you considered your brother after you know that he would willingly sell you out for his own survival?

would you be able to take fighting for a cause that is slowly killing your family? would you be able to stick with people who are your closest friends in the world, but also are on the most dangerous mission in the world? would you be able to sacrifice one of them for the greater good?

would you be able to fight for freedom? freedom for your blood, for your mother and father, for the good people you’ve met, for the people you love? for the people besides you? would you be able to never see your family ever again if it was for their safety? would you be able to face them as they stared at you blankly and asked what your name was?

would you be able to die?

would you be willing to die?

who are you?

you are a boy. a man. you have a soul inside of you, one that is not your own. do you understand? your eyes are an omen. you were born and raised to die.  **_do you understand?_ **

  
  


would you be able to walk to your death? 

would you be able to sacrifice yourself in a burnt-out shell of a castle, for the girl you love, for the friends you call family, for the people who have fought to gain a better future for all. could you?

would you be able to stand in a clearing, your fists trembling, as you said a goodbye-hello to the people who you call your family? would you be able to face your mother and father and choke out about how you’d see them soon? would you be able to face your godfather, the man you thought would be able to become your first real family, and ask him if dying would hurt? would you be able to face a man you saw become a husband and father and give you the title of godfather for his own child and say you were sorry you could never see his child grow?

would you be able to let go of a stone and watch them disappear, and would you be able to stand alone in that clearing?

would you be able to stare down a monstrous man in the face, accept a green flash of light?

die with a smile on your lips?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


the answer is no.

you would not. do you understand? you cannot understand these things. you have not faced this war. you think you would understand? you are pitiful, if you believe you could. 

their experiences separate you from them. you are not any one of them. you could try to affix yourself to their mindset, their character, how they would react, how it should have gone with their personalities, how you think the situation would have been handled, but it would never be them.

if you understand that, then you are understanding something correctly.

the thing is, there are so many facets to a diamond, to a jewel. an emerald, for example. it is a brilliant green, but on one shiny side, it can reflect white.

do you realize?

perhaps you cannot. perhaps you think of these things only briefly, when you see them on the television or on the news or perhaps when someone lowers their voice to talk about it. perhaps, you think, how much difference can i really make?

perhaps there is no perhaps.

you cannot. you think of these things only briefly, when you see them on the television or on the news or when someone lower their voice to talk about it. you think, how much difference can i really make?

who are you, is the question.

you could be a faceted being. do you know? perhaps you are those things above. perhaps. but perhaps you could also reflect another side, realize, understand, remember, feel, think, believe. who are you? are you someone who can turn around and see their reflection in a mirro and startle when you realize that you can understand yourself? you see yourself as if you could describe another entity? do you know?

it is of what you do.

your actions describe your viscerally, in a way you unfold as. it is of what you do that influences others. do you rise up, screaming to the heavens, demanding what is right? do you quietly help others rise, searching from the sidelines? do you sit down and ponder your existence, of what it means to be yourself?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


you do, that is. you do, doing the very things you were taught, the very rules you break, the very laws you disobey, the constructs you rip apart, you are something burning but perhaps not bright but perhaps not dark.

  
  
  
  
  


the world is in shades of grey. of burgundy and teal and magenta. you could burn like a flame, a roaring pit, a small candle. perhaps you are not bright but perhaps you are not dark.

do you understand? that is all that matters. it does not matter who you are. i do not care for your age, your race, your gender, your nationality, your ideals, your religions, your habits, your sicknesses, your health, your disabilities, your pride, your sexuality, your gender, your family, your justifications, your roles, your responsibilities, your unknown notices, your unfeeling feelings. 

if you do not understand, that it alright. do you know why? there is different domains of grasp for knowledge. you are not your own wall. you can break through. you understand differently. i understand that. nobody is the same. you know? 

what if i told you it this way, the simplest way i know: you are your actions. you are your thoughts. you are your consequences. you are your own war. you can fight yourself or you can fight others or you can fight the nature of being.

take whatever damage you receive and hold it strong. it is only another brick to your wall. you can use it to build up your defences, hold your thoughts steady, your heart against your chest.

you are made of consequences and actions. of cause and effect. you are yourself as much as you understand how much that matters.

do you finally understand?

there is not right or wrong. there is only yes and no. neither are things that truly mean anything by themselves, except for positive and negative. do you understand? you cannot fault “yes” for being too positive or an affirmation or an answer, just the same as you cannot fault “no” for the same, just negative.

there are always things you will never understand. things you cannot fathom. things you will only hear of, never go through. it is true. it is real. it is there. it is tangible. it is fighting to break through and keen at the world.

you will never fully understand. you will never fully grasp onto the facts. it is inevitable.

but that is alright. that is alright, you understand?

if you understand that, then you are going to be just fine. 

i hope you understand. i truly do.

even if it’s just a little.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> a/n: tw: war, death, homelessness, starvation, corruption in high places or governments, suicidal thoughts, grief, destruction/murder, trauma, general existential questions of death
> 
> all of these are only briefly touched upon. again, i ask you to please note that all of these things i only have mildly touched upon, and not in-depth. i understand that sometimes, however, we all have different definitions of depth. if you are sensitive or easily triggered, i would ask you to just not read this at all. if not, or you think you can handle it, then please go ahead if you wish.
> 
> if you did read and made it to the end, i thank you. please ponder upon my questions and statements if you wish to. if not, then thank you for giving this rant a chance, and i hope you will at least understand a small amount more.


End file.
